The World that Never Was
by SumRandomNutt
Summary: What would the wizarding world be like if Harry Potter had chosen not to return to life? Would his death extinguish all hope? This fic follows the survivors as they struggle to exist in a world conquered by Voldemort. Wildly-AU, post-DH.
1. She Talks to Angels

**A/N:** Hello, loves! I'd like to take a moment to give credit where credit is due--first to J. K. Rowling for the incredible Potterverse, as well as to The Black Crowes. The italicized lyrics in this chapter are from The Black Crowes song _She Talks to Angels_. If you haven't heard it, it's distinctly amazing, and you should go listen right now!

Also, as my other fics have a pitifully small number of reviews but considerably more hits, I'll take this opportunity to beg--yes, BEG--that you, oh glorious reader, please review this story. Tell me, at the very least, whether you love it, hate it, or are entirely indifferent. Feedback is love, my friends, and everyone should spread the love. Oh, and if you happen to see any grammatical errors, please point them out--I hate them and must obsessively eradicate them.

And now, for a slightly-more-complete summary: As stated, this is a _very_ AU fic, beginning several months after the end of _Deathly Hallows_. Harry did not return to life, and the wizarding world is a far darker place than that depicted in the epilogue. This story will follow the lives of a few of your favorite characters--a different one each chapter, for now--as they try to do what Harry Potter, in the end, could not.

* * *

_she keeps a lock of hair in her pocket_

_she wears a cross around her neck_

Hermione Jean Granger hurries through the deserted streets of Diagon Alley. Her eyes are fixed unwaveringly on the sidewalk, her shoulders bowed beneath the weight of an entire world. In her mind, echoes of former happiness sound like sweet music, laughing children and calling merchants, but in her ears, only silence rings.

Her fingers slip inside her robe, curling around the golden cross that hangs, suspended by a thin chain, around her neck. It is a mechanical gesture now, a method of seeking comfort that she's long since given up hoping to find. The necklace was once her mother's, but she no longer dares think that painful word.

The Grangers have never been particularly religious—like their daughter, they are literal-minded people, and they rarely concern themselves with thoughts of a higher guiding power. However, the cross has been passed down in the family from mother to daughter for generations.

The last thing Susan Granger did before her daughter shattered her memories was clasp the chain around Hermione's neck.

_yes, the hair is from a little boy_

_and the cross is someone she has not met, not yet_

Thinking of that moment now makes the woman's eyes burn, but she is far beyond hope and so beyond tears. She blinks furiously to lessen the ache, casting vainly for some less sensitive subject. She's gotten quite good at avoidance these days, avoidance of others and her own agonizing thoughts. However, occasionally her will falters, and she teeters on the edge of an endless downward spiral, not quite consumed by hell and yet not quite free of it either.

She's going to be late if she doesn't speed up. The Portkey will leave without her, and seven days are too precious to waste on account of seconds of tardiness. She dashes into the hulking skeleton of what used to be Flourish and Blotts and lunges to the nearest shelf, which is cracked and nearly topples beneath her sudden weight. She is just in time, for the tattered green book beneath her palms begins to glow, and she is gone.

After her stomach settles, she opens her eyes and sees with relief that the destination has not been changed. It was highly fortuitous that she managed to stumble upon a Portkey in an abandoned building in the first place, but then the Death Eaters are always popping here or there to terrorize and maim. Of course, since the Ministry has fallen, she has no way of knowing when the Portkey will expire or be altered. After months of bitter disappointment after bitter disappointment, she's learned to expect all plans will go awry.

She is far enough away from the Burrow for the walk to be uncomfortably chilly. Winter's grip is slow to loosen this year, as she imagines it should be. Still, she doesn't hurry. She dreads these meetings with every fiber in her being—the all-consuming emptiness and the expression on Molly's face tilt her closer to despair each week.

"Give me strength," she breathes into the quiet countryside.

_oh yeah, she talks to angels_

_says they call her out by her name_

It no longer strikes anyone around her as odd that she sometimes speaks aloud to no one. It's not as if they can comment, anyway; there really isn't a soul alive who hasn't developed their own quirk since the Battle of Hogwarts.

That is another taboo, Hogwarts. Hermione's gut wrenches as she thinks of it, both as it once was and as it must be now. She squeezes her eyes shut, one, two, three. Perhaps it truly is a dream, and she'll wake up tomorrow to Harry and Ron's laughter…

Her heart constricts. For a second, her body empties of breath, and darkness dances in and out of her vision. This is an exquisite form of torture, but she does not stem the flood of memories that beat against her wounded spirit. As she stands shivering in front of the Burrow, her hand strays from the cross and into her deepest pocket, where her fingers brush a lock of red-orange hair.

_oh yeah, there's a smile when the pain comes_

_the pain's gonna make everything alright, alright yeah_


	2. How Soon is Now

**A/N:** 'Lo again, folks. Here we are with chapter two and a certain former Slytherin! I know nothing much has happened plot-wise in this or the previous chapter, but I promise it's coming. I want to give a sense of the world now, as well as the effect the Battle had on each character. So bear with me?

Also, the song used in this bit is _How Soon Is Now_, by The Smiths (and, if you happen to watch _Charmed_, Love Spit Love). :) Enjoy.

* * *

_i am the son and heir_

_of nothing in particular_

His fingers drum restlessly on the desktop, and he stares at the wood as though he's trying to strip it of its glossy varnish. In reality he is paralyzed, trapped by a dilemma he never thought he'd have to face.

_Fuck Potter._ _The one time I really _wanted _him to win, he had to go and bloody lose._ Of course, it hadn't mattered much to Draco at first anyway; he expected wind up dead, win or lose. To say that Voldemort was unhappy with his performance is a comically gross understatement. Ironically, the Dark Lord had been feeling "generous" post-victory, and he'd settled for releasing the last of the ruined Malfoys after a healthy dose of Cruciatus.

All he has now is an empty, desecrated Manor that still crawls with remembrances of Voldemort and a broken name. The silver spoon has tarnished, leaving the bitter taste of rust in his mouth. It is almost funny, really, the way things have turned out—he once wanted nothing more than the end of Harry Potter, and now he craves the opposite. At least if the wanker had won, Draco wouldn't be sitting here, twiddling his thumbs and wracked with indecision.

_Fuck._ He can't seem to concentrate. Even now, months after the incident, occasional tremors ghost through his body, and old pains flare up at the slightest memory. Merlin, he's practically an invalid! Abruptly, his tapping fingers curl into a fist, which he then slams into the desktop.

Fresh pain, _real_ pain, distracts him from the past for a scant moment. He could get up right now and go, but they'll probably curse him on sight. Even so, he considers the possibility, some dark part of him hoping that his demise will be the outcome of the evening.

_you shut your mouth, how can you say_

_i go about things the wrong way_

_Focus._ They blame him for the death of their beloved Ronald, he is quite certain. No matter that it wasn't his hand which waved the wand or his voice which hissed the words—for all they saw, he stood by and let their darling boy be murdered. They hadn't felt, as he did, the pressure of Voldemort's mind in his own, heard the whispered threat.

_If you bother saving him, Draco, I will kill your mother._ The Dark Lord had spoken as though inviting him to tea. And so he had stood by, watching the silent plea in Weasley's eyes give way to cold, awful realization, and the boy's features blurred into the frosty, regal countenance of Narcissa Malfoy. Of course, he'd killed her anyway, just before he'd sent Draco to rot alone in the mansion. Draco still hears his mother's screams bouncing off the stone walls of Hogwarts when he manages to sleep.

Which one of them would've made a different choice, he wonders, had he been in Weasley's position and at their mercy? None, obviously, but that will not keep them from ending him tonight, if he dares show up on their doorstep. Still, he rises and limps away from the desk, face twisting into a knot of pain.

He summons his broom, and it rockets obediently into his waiting hand. Before he quite realizes what he's consigned himself to, he is outside and airborne, skimming above the trees through a veil of evening mist. He has never been to the Burrow before, but he knows where it is anyway. Lucius, for reasons he'd never divulged but which were probably less-than-savory, had kept the address.

_i am human and i need to be loved_

_just like everybody else does_

He flies slowly, not relishing the encounter that is now inevitable. Goosebumps rise on his pale skin, and his platinum hair, unkempt and too-long, flutters about distractingly. He tries to lose himself in these sensations rather than relive, as he does every other moment, the merry-go-round of deaths and tortures he experienced at the Battle of Hogwarts. A glimpse of his own hair out of the corner of his eye triggers in his mind an image of his father.

He remembers Lucius standing tall on Voldemort's left, watching dispassionately as a nameless Muggle is tortured. He remembers Lucius sneering at the tangle of Weasleys passing by in Diagon Alley. He remembers Lucius on his knees before Voldemort, begging to be spared. Lucius is emptied of all pride, and without pride, a Malfoy is nothing. He realizes he is nothing as green light spews from the Elder Wand to consume him.

Draco shakes his head to dispel the vision. He vows, for perhaps the thousandth time, to focus on the present. He is all that is left—the king of a shattered, meaningless dynasty. And he is flying toward both suicide and the only good deed he's attempted in his entire life.

_see i've already waited too long_

_and all my hope is gone_


	3. Long Ride Home

**A/N:** Hello again, dears. The song featured in this installment is Patty Griffin's _Long Ride Home_. It's beautiful and tragic, and I thought it fit this chapter's character perfectly. This was a tough one to write, by the way, so I'd really love some constructive criticism.

* * *

_someone dug a hole six long feet in the ground_

_i said goodbye to you and i threw my roses down_

She examines the scars and scratches on the tabletop. Now and then she traces one with a shaking fingertip, and a mockery of a smile settles onto her lined features. (It is a heart-rending expression for those around her, but she does not notice their shining eyes.) Her voice rises, tentative and quavering, above the others' whispers.

"This one's from when Fred and George tried to blow up that hideous singing centerpiece Auntie Muriel sent us. D'you remember, George?"

Three long seconds of silence. Then he answers, quietly, "Yeah, Mum. I remember."

"I wasn't really angry, you know. Of course, I had to pretend to be, but I hated that centerpiece. Do you think…" She trails off, and they wait. Her eyes drift upward, and she searches each of their patient faces, looking for all the world like a hopeful child.

"Yeah, Mum?" His voice is thick, but she doesn't notice.

"Do you think he knows? That I'm not mad?" There is something wistful about her, and Hermione gives a little cough that is perhaps a sob.

Three more seconds of silence. "Yeah, Mum. I'm sure he does."

_forty years go by with someone laying in your bed_

_forty years of things you say you wish you never said_

"Molly?" Minerva is speaking to her now, and the lines of her severe face have collapsed into softness. "We need to talk about the plans," she urges gently. She reaches across the table to press Molly's hand.

"Shouldn't we wait for Arthur? He'll be quite upset if we go on without him."

There is an abrupt clattering sound, and suddenly Hermione is nowhere to be seen. Molly's brow wrinkles. Everyone is acting terribly strangely. She wishes Arthur would hurry home—he is her rock, her steadiness. He has withstood all of life's waves with her.

The silence deepens. George speaks up, finally forming a coherent sentence after several failed attempts. "She's been saying things like that a lot lately," is all he can manage before he, too, jumps to his feet and rushes from the room. At least he doesn't knock over his chair.

Molly peers anxiously toward the sitting room clock, and she is befuddled by the absence of Arthur's name. Perhaps the ancient charm is finally beginning to fade. She'll have to have her husband look at it, when he finally gets home.

"Well," declares McGonagall in a voice that shakes only slightly, "I must insist that we continue. Hermione's Portkey leaves in an hour, and I really must be gone shortly after that—they don't like us Apparating after dark."

Molly drops her eyes to the table again. "I suppose," she sighs. "But I know he'll have a thousand questions that I won't be able to answer by myself."

They settle into earnest discussion to which Molly only lends half an ear. She's beginning to get the unpleasant feeling that she's forgotten something of dire importance, but she also has a distinct sense that she doesn't want to remember. It is peculiar and frustrating, and she lets the words of the others ebb and flow around her in a meaningless tide.

_i go inside and all is silent_

_it seems as empty as the inside of me_

Hermione and George have both returned and are in a heated debate about something—the impossibility of getting into Hogwarts, perhaps—when there comes a knock at the door. Instantly, everyone around Molly stiffens, and all talk evaporates.

"Well, isn't anyone going to answer it?" she demands, planting her palms on the table to push herself up.

Bill leaps to his feet before she can take a single step. His chair tips, too, and Molly clucks, "Klutzes, every one of you!" as he hurries past her.

The surge of hatred that courses through her almost frightens her as she stares past her eldest son out the open door. Her wits come back to her with stunning force as she recognizes the face, one so pale it almost gleams in the night.

Before she knows what has happened, her wand is in her hand, and it is pointing it directly at the chest of the man she loathes more than anyone save Voldemort: Draco Malfoy.

_i've had some time to think about you_

_and watch the sun sink like a stone_


	4. Holy Roller Novocaine

**A/N:** Yep, it's me. I'm not dead. Woohoo! I have, however, started college, which is sort of my excuse for having disappeared. I bring you a shiny new chapter! The song featured herein is _Holy Roller Novocaine_ by Kings of Leon. It's always struck me as an intensely creepy song, and I thought it perfectly fitting for a piece featuring...well, You-Know-Who. Really, if you haven't heard the song though, definitely check it out!

_my darlin', you look lovely_

_i've come to lay you down_

He closes his eyes for a brief second, and when he opens them again, he glimpses Bellatrix's scowl before it can disappear. He smiles at the flash of her terror. "Now, now, Bellatrix. Jealousy is unbecoming."

He knows she would like to object—she, jealous of a filthy blood-traitor wench?—but she is no foolish woman. Impulsive, dramatic, and a bit too eager to please, perhaps, but certainly not foolish. "Yes, my Lord," she says, bowing low. "Shall I leave you?"

He contemplates ordering her to stay, just to see her squirm at her proximity to the girl. But she has been flawless these past few nights, so there is no reason to punish her. "Check on our other guests," he commands instead. He is not surprised when she leaps to obey.

The one he'd summoned drifts by Bellatrix as she exits, and he is amused at how quickly the elder witch recoils. The girl does not seem to notice how close she is to the woman who'd once tried to kill her. Her eyes are locked on him alone, as he wishes it.

"I trust there will be no silly little schemes today?" he asks by way of greeting. When she neither responds nor bows to him, his bleached face twists into a frown.

Evidently, she feels his pulse of displeasure, for she drops her body in half-hearted acknowledgement. "No."

He is continually surprised at how much venom she can muster, after so many months. If she had been anyone else, he would've ended her long ago, but he finds her meager defiance oddly pleasing. He must admit that it thrills him to keep her, the ultimate trophy. Who could attempt to dispute his mastery while he has at his mercy Harry Potter's feisty red-haired witch? Still, she must learn respect. "No, what, Ginevra?"

She winces at the name, as though he'd struck her. Invoking that name never fails to extinguish the flame of resistance. "No, my Lord," she murmurs, lowering her head.

_uncover your head and submit to me_

_we'll make a joyful sound_

He pulls her closer to him with the force of his mind, delighting in the fear that floods her eyes. His bone-white fingers trail over her neck, where his mark still stands out sharply on her skin. It probably still burns with his recent summons.

The Death Eaters were furious, at first, that one of their enemies—and an insolent child, at that!—was branded with his symbol. Of course, they never dare object, and he never explains. But they are, to him, not so different from the girl. They are all his possessions, though some of them would like to think more of themselves.

He smiles as she shivers beneath his touch. It is an exquisite enchantment, fear—the smell of it, the taste of it, the knowledge the he inspires such deep, instinctive dread. He steps away from her, still wearing that grotesque mockery of a smile.

His gaze is clinical, detached. It rakes over her disheveled hair, her pathetically-thin frame, crawling most unpleasantly across her skin. She tries to twist away, repulsed as always, but once again she is paralyzed by his will.

"You're too thin. Have you been trying to starve yourself, Ginevra?" He clucks, shaking his head. "Now, now. You don't want your dear little friends to suffer because you won't cooperate, do you?"

She doesn't answer. He advances. His eyes narrow more than seemingly possible, blazing into her skin. Faint lines of pale scarring are etched into her flesh, so cunningly placed that he nearly missed them. His anger spikes, roiling through the walls of the castle like the tremors of an earthquake.

"Who did this?" he hisses, and all trace of decorum vanishes. Fire burns in his eyes, and the young woman wilts beneath his searing regard. Her straight back slumps, her face crumples, and all traces of defiance leak from her body into the cold stone.

"Who?" he rasps again, locking her shoulder in his vise-like grip.

She whimpers, but she doesn't speak.

His fingers dig deeper into her flesh, squeezing the bone, and the cry is torn from her mind and her throat before she can raise any defense.

_keep that smile on your pretty face_

'_cause you don't have much i can't take away_

_Bellatrix._

His fury ripples through the ancient castle, so palpable that the portraits quiver in their frames and the prisoners moan and cower in their dungeon cells. The Death Eaters freeze, looking about with wide eyes. More often than not, when one of them disgraces the Master, all are punished. They remain rigid, transfixed, until the sibilant murmur of her name slips into their minds and they heave a collective sigh of relief.

It is only one of them who will feel the Dark Lord's wrath tonight.

She is cackling, twirling her wand like a master painter putting the finishing touches on his magnum opus, when the summons scorches her, pulsing through her arm like liquid fire. She staggers. Her wand clatters to the floor, and the curse-light sputters into non-existence.

The pale-haired prisoner keeps screaming, even after Bellatrix has gone.

When she reaches her Master, the brat is crumpled on the floor, soundless and motionless. The very air writhes with his rage, and she drops to one knee before she even crosses the threshold. "My Lord." She does not dare try to meet his eyes.

"Bellatrix." Her name drips from his non-existent lips like the vilest potion imaginable. "Dear Bellatrix."

Several moments of awful silence descend, and she braces herself for the agony of his most potent Cruciatus. It does not fall, yet.

"What have I told you about playing with _my_ toys?"

_don't you worry baby_

_you won't feel a thing_

_close your eyes_

_holy roller novocaine_


	5. Mad World

**A/N: **So, I'm actually writing again! Not this chapter, specifically; it's actually one I wrote but never got around to posting. However, I'm hoping to fall back into this story so I can update it. And maybe, one day, you know...actually finish it_. _The song quoted in this chapter is Gary Jules's _Mad World_._  
_

* * *

_all around me are familiar faces_

_worn out places, worn out faces_

She slips out somewhere amidst the screams. She doesn't even flinch anymore at the unearthly wails; they play over and over in her mind, night and day, after all. The halls are empty, for everyone is hiding from his wrath. She floats through the ruined Hogwarts, no more substantial than the ghosts.

She sees them, now and again, drifting like sad, aimless leaves on a dead wind. They're trapped here, just as she is. She wishes, with all the fervency she can muster, that she could become one of them, simply melt away into the scarred stone. Perhaps then it would be easier to wander these doomed corridors.

But no. Eventually she'll die and be free of this prison. They're stuck here forever, watching uselessly as the world inside Hogwarts withers. They pity her, she understands, when they see the fresh scars and hear the screams of her nightmares, but she pities them more. Though no curse can break them, they have not even the solace of death to look forward to.

_their tears are filling up their glasses_

_no expression, no expression_

She feels herself slipping away, sinking down-down-down into the recesses of her mind, into the deepest place where she can't see, can't feel, can't hate. Most times, she embraces the emptiness, lets it consume her so she must endure neither the curses nor the memories, both of which scald like hot iron against her skin. It's only with him that she's pulled from her trance. It's the hatred, the rage—it sears through her veins, burning and waking whether she wills it or not.

Now, though, something in her resists the temptation to fall. She thought she'd lost that defiance long ago, after the first tortuous weeks, after she'd stopped dreaming of escape. Now during these brief moments of consciousness, she clings to musings of revenge rather than rescue. He sees the thoughts, she realizes, but she doesn't try to hide them. They both know all her hellish fantasies will come to naught. He even laughs, sometimes, when he rips the vivid pictures from her mind.

She thinks that's why he keeps her around, because she's entertaining. Perhaps if she let the anger die, he'd get bored and let them kill her. She's considered disappearing completely into the dead space of her thoughts, but something in her won't let go. _Stupid Weasley stubbornness_. She scowls, and it feels strange. Such an expression hasn't crossed her face in…oh, she no longer bothers with time. It's irrelevant to this existence, and it hurts. Thinking of time means thinking of the past and of the future, the one she wishes she didn't have.

_hide my head i want to drown my sorrow_

_no tomorrow, no tomorrow_

If only he didn't have them, she could end time at this moment. She's not sure if she could manage a spell, but it's a simple matter to climb the Astronomy tower and just…float away, down-down-down. She laughs a little, imagining it, feeling it, and all the while her feet are carrying her up the stone steps. The sound she makes is foreign, harsh. She's forgotten the way it ought to be, but it doesn't really matter.

Cold air rushes against her face. She emerges from the reverie to find herself staring out over the Hogwarts grounds. Down-down-down. She smiles, or something like it. One hand stretches out into the open air, closing into a fist around nothing. The almost-laugh bubbles up again, rusty and hot in her throat. One way or another, she will fall down-down-down.

_and i find it kind of funny, i find it kind of sad_

_the dreams in which i'm dying are the best I've ever had_


End file.
